Mirror Image
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar, Claire. On his way to his father's house, Sylar makes a phone call.


I'm so excited for the season finale, you guys.

**Title**: Mirror Image  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar, Claire  
**Summary**: On his way to his father's house, Sylar makes a phone call.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x18  
**Word Count**: 1000  
**Notes**: **maia_cyllene** is brilliant and told me: "I am amused by the reverse from season 1 of Claire trying to find her real parents while Sylar is fixated on her to Sylar trying to find his real parents while Claire is fixated on him." Hey, yeah, what's up with that, show?

* * *

He's always been good at geometry.

It's his favorite analytical science, with its sizes and volumes and distances. As a child, he'd stand beneath his father's favorite clock and measure height in inches and angles and tick tocks. He would calculate volume in glasses half-empty or half-full. Space in _here_ or _not_.

As an adult, Sylar only keeps track of distances.

There. Phone booth. Old, but it probably works.

He eases off the gas, and pulls into an abandoned gas station. The rotting planks hang low above his head. There's a thick layer of dust on the phone handle. He picks it up anyway. Waits for the operator to ask.

He knows the address well, of course.

He also knows the exact number of miles between them. Knows the length of time necessary for the signal to travel from this phone booth to a bland little kitchen in California. Four rings, five, six. No answer. He could kill her for not picking up. If she could, you know. Die.

Ring nine, and he's pretty sure he'll get the machine, but there—a sharp click and an out of breath, "Hello?"

He doesn't say anything. Really, he doesn't even know why he called.

"Uh, hello? Are you still h—oh, damn it."

"I'm here," he says calmly. Leans against the booth. Glances at its ceiling.

She's quiet for a long moment, then, with a soft sigh, asks, "Sylar?"

He doesn't reply.

She mumbles, barely loud enough for him to hear, "Well, why not. First, Puppet Guy shows up in my kitchen—"

"I thought I killed him," he interrupts casually.

Claire's tone changes. Haughty: "What do you want?"

Yeah. What does he want. "I found my father, Claire."

She pauses. "Okay. Congratulations. Bye."

Before she hangs up, he adds, "I'm going to kill him."

He's starting to think the line's gone dead when she finally replies. "You're a serial killer, Sylar. Am I supposed to be surprised you're going to kill someone? The serial part sort of implies—"

His lips form a thin line. "He killed my mother."

She's quiet for a moment, then: "You killed mine."

Sylar leans his forehead against the dial.

"You've killed mothers," she continues. "Women who could have been mothers." An angry, "What makes your mother's death so much more _special_ than theirs?"

He closes his eyes. He's tired. And she's right. "Nothing."

She exhales, calming down. "Our phone's probably bugged. I'm hanging up before the feds assume I'm helping you, too."

He catches the implication, but doesn't press. "Mm. I've killed a few of them, but they keep coming back."

Her voice lowers as though she's pressing her lips closer to the phone. "Yeah, same here. Only, I killed mine indirectly."

He tilts his head.

"Not on purpose," she clarifies as though he doesn't own the world's biggest mental dictionary.

"You're progressing nicely," he smiles, drawing circles on the glass. His finger comes away stained with dirt.

She sounds annoyed. Good. "Don't start that whole 'We're so similar' thing again."

He glances at his watch. He needs to sleep. Or kill something. "Disliking repetition. Another thing in common."

He's surprised she hasn't unplugged the phone yet. "When _I_ found my real father," she growls, "I didn't try to kill him."

Amused, Sylar pauses. He's seen this. He touched her. So he knows. "You threw a brick at his car, Claire."

She shuts up.

The grimy metal feels cold against his skin. "Sounds like assault to me," he drawls lazily.

He can almost picture her scowl. "I probably should've killed him when I had the chance."

This. This, he wants to hear.

"The guys that are after you—after _us_—" she says, sounding tired. "That's Nathan's fault."

Sylar files the information away. He'll revisit it later. Definitely.

She hesitates for a moment, then murmurs, "My father's rounding up people like us." Her voice softens. "Both of my fathers."

"Mine sold me for cash."

The exasperation in her voice is kind of soothing. "This isn't a competition!"

Sylar glances at his dirty reflection, observing his palm in the smudged glass. "I picked up a sidekick for a few days."

She pauses again, processing the information. "...what? The phone?"

"A kid. Boring power. Annoying like you."

He's pretty sure she's rolling her eyes. "Funny. Mine sort of looked like you."

Sylar glances at the lines on the glass. This is geometry. It's simple. Probably the simplest thing in the world. It's a straight line from point A to point B. From this phone booth to his father's hovel.

Why is he hesitating?

"Sylar," she warns, voice cold. "It won't stop."

His fingers grip the handle tighter.

"Even if you kill him," she tells him, "it's not going to fix you."

He hangs up.

What does she know anyway.

He's almost back in the car when the phone rings. It's loud. Taunting. But whatever. He's not going to pick up. Time to move on to point B. He has to keep moving.

The phone rings again.

"What?" he snarls into the handle.

"Did you call collect?" she demands.

His mouth twists, not unpleasantly. "I'll pay you back, Claire."

She hangs up.

Sylar strides over to his car. Feels awake. The soles of his feet leave no trace in the dust. Seventy six miles to point B. One thousand five hundred and forty four miles to point C.

The speedometer hovers around ninety miles per hour.

Yeah.

He can pay her back in two days.


End file.
